Mumbai to Mecca Read online

  From Mumbai to Mecca

  First published in Great Britain in 2007 by

  Haus Publishing Ltd,

  70 Cadogan Place

  London sw1x 9ah

  www.hauspublishing.co.uk

  This first paperback edition published in 2017

  Originally published under the title Zu den heiligen Quellen des Islam.

  Als Pilger nach Mekka und Medina by Ilija Trojanow

  © 2004 Piper Verlag GmbH, München

  Translation copyright © 2007, 2017 Rebecca Morrison

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the

  British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-909961-51-7

  Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd

  Printed and bound in the UK

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  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  To all the brothers and sisters who were by my side to help before, during and after the Hajj.

  Prologue

  Ancient both as a form as well as a tradition, literary travel writing about the Hajj – Rihla in Arabic, Safarnameh in Persian – has been in existence for over one thousand years. These are accounts of the Muslim pilgrimage as the culmination of all desires, the unique time-out that is as rich in trial and tribulation as it is in rewards and delight. Whether the words are those of Naser-e Khusrau, Ibn Jubayr, Ibn Battuta, Mohammed Farahani, Hossein Kazemzadeh or Mohammed Asad, to name some of the most renowned names in this tradition – they all aimed to be honest, informative and enlightening without glossing over their experience or concealing their suffering, nor were they sparing in their criticism of the conditions they saw and the way Islam was being lived and practised. There has always existed a deep chasm between the promise and the reality of the Hajj, which lends a particular tension to the accounts. It is, therefore, to this author, a matter of importance as well as honour to be following this tradition.

  A common feature for all Muslim narrators who write about their Hajj experience is that they do not place their own feelings in the foreground and only on occasion delve into their own sensitivities. The travel writer who allows the world to revolve around his own person and psyche is a more recent Western phenomenon. Among the half dozen or so non-Muslim Hajj authors – as varied in character as in their alibis or masquerades; slaves, short-lived converts, researchers and adventurers – two accounts stand out: those of Johann Ludwig Burckhardt of Switzerland, and the British explorer Sir Richard Francis Burton. Characterised by their painstaking effort for precision, both accounts are predominantly free of ideological slander or racist perniciousness. It is indicative that both authors, who couldn’t be categorized as practicing Muslims, are regarded at least as sympathisers of an ideal Islam.

  Allah is the Arabic word for God that is used by Arab Muslims, as well as Arabic-speaking Christians and Jews alike – much in the same way the French refer to God as Dieu. However, the use of the word Allah in an English context only serves to further alienate and differentiate the Islamic concept of God, as though it fundamentally differs from what is familiar to Christians. This misconception culminates in the nonsensical but all-too-common translation of the creed of faith as: And there is no God but Allah. Since there is no other God than God, since He is without name, because intangible, I will use the term Allah only when quoting.

  Departure

  Along queue of people stretched from the first check- in point, all identically dressed. The queue snaked through the terminal as far as the exit and beyond. A few paces away, a glass wall separated those waiting to depart from their relatives who were dressed in a burst of everyday colours. Gathering for the final farewell, they were excited, boisterous, and packed in tightly, on the look-out for one last wave or some other parting gesture of assurance. Although it was the middle of the night, it was warm and humid outside, but inside the chilly breath of the air-conditioning was seeping through and those waiting were cold in their light attire. The men were clad in two pieces of white cloth; one wrapped around their hips, the other draped over their shoulders, while the women were somewhat better protected in their full-length white robes and headscarves. Outside, there was a bazaar-like atmosphere – luggage surrounded by extended families, the thoroughfare blocked by people and sacks of rice – an air of vibrant celebration reigned, tempered by a creeping sense of uncertainty. Inside, the festive atmosphere was muted: We stood in a single, orderly line and inched our baggage trolleys forward, calmly, as though knowing what was in store for us.

  Picking me up from home a few hours before, they had been emotional, even more excited than relatives or friends are on an occasion such as this. After all, they were the ones who had prepared me for the journey throughout the preceding months, had answered my questions and shared in my growing anticipation – they had borne witness to my transformation into a pilgrim. They bought me the ihram I was to wear, those two white wraps of light terry cloth, and now they helped me put them on. As they gathered round for the obligatory photo, they suppressed their smiles like restive children.

  After a brief, solitary prayer, I stood in the middle of the room, feeling vulnerable and at the mercy of my friends. They looked me up and down, expressed their satisfaction, yet their approval made me suddenly aware of the new distance between us. By donning the ihram, I had adopted the pilgrim state and as such, we were no longer equal. Not only because I was blessed in a wonderful way, but also now in many respects, I would have to conform to almost a reversal of the rules they followed as believers who are not embarking on the Hajj. In ihram I was forbidden to cut my hair or nails, wear tailored clothing, head coverings, substantial shoes, or socks, or to use aftershave. I was also not allowed to cover my face, have sexual intercourse, kill animals (with the exception of certain dangerous or poisonous ones), or engage in any fight or quarrel. After performing the pilgrimage, I would return to my friends and resume the familiar norms, distinct however as a Hajji – someone worthy of respect for having performed the pilgrimage to Mecca.

  ‘Can you recite the Labbeik*?’ one of my friends asked, and I uttered the first line, a little diffidently at first, but with increasing confidence as the others joined in, and we recited, on the 16th floor of a Mumbai skyscraper, the call of the pilgrim in unison:

  Labbeik, Allahumma, Labbeik;

  Labbeik, La Sharika Laka, Labbeik;

  Innal hamda Wal Nimata Laka Wal Mulk;

  Laa Sharika Lak

  [Here I am, O’ God, at Thy Command! Here I am at Thy command!

  Thou art without other; Here I am at Thy Command!

  Praise, blessings and dominion are Thine! Thou art without associate.]

  On the way to the airport, I collected the various requests for specific prayers from my brothers. Prayers spoken on behalf of someone else are more effective than prayers spoken on one’s own behalf. Intercession is a very powerful concept in Islam, and it is believed that when in Mecca ‘the gates of heaven are open’ to one’s prayers. Most powerful of all, however, are the prayers undertaken for a fellow Muslim beside the Kaaba in Mecca, and at the tomb of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) in Medina. I promised to pray for mothers, for wives in the final stages
of pregnancy, for newlyweds, and for the recently deceased.

  We took our leave of one another at Terminal 2, known at this time of year as the ‘Hajj Terminal’. Burhan, who had been particularly helpful in the lead-up, took me to one side conspiratorially and said:

  ‘You will experience things, which will seem strange to you. Hajjis can behave like madmen. You will perhaps question the sense of some rituals: the running back and forth between hills, or the stoning of the pillars. And you will be taken aback by the behaviour of many Hajjis, but you have to understand – it all stems from love. A lover is not always rational in his actions, or how he expresses his emotions and aims to please his beloved. He is excessive and unrestrained.’ So saying, Burhan embraced me warmly, and I joined the line of people.

  It was the colour green I noticed first, then the writing: Cosmic Travel. The man in front of me with a small son – his wealth apparent in an ihram of fine cloth and an elegant pair of spectacles – was pushing a trolley with green luggage. A family sitting a little way off on the floor was hemmed in by Cosmic Travel bags. I looked around and there were a number of people carrying two green travel bags as I was, one large and one small, with the tour company’s logo on them. We belonged to the same group, all of us dependent on our tour guides who enjoyed the privilege of performing the Hajj every year. The guide I knew best was Hamidbhai, a chain-smoker with great bags under his eyes and a protruding lower lip that lent him a constantly sleepy air even in the midst of hectic activity. He could certainly smile; indeed his eyes sparkled with a general amusement at the world and people, but it was one that was only very occasionally expressed in a joke. He wasn’t the sort of man you would warm to immediately, but after spending any time with him, it was impossible not to like him.

  Hamidbhai was up at the check-in counter, overseeing the checking-in of our luggage. The pilgrims may have been lightly attired but they definitely weren’t travelling light. Trading has always been part of the Hajj since the pre-Islamic (Jahiliyya) period. Bedouins poured into Mecca not only to visit the shrines of gods, but also to trade at the Great Market, and the Prophet (pbuh) – more considerate of human needs than founders of other religions – permitted an activity that provided both motivation for, and financing of, the journey. Sacks of basmati rice were piled high by the Air India counter; trolleys so laden they could scarcely be pushed, and so numerous that the non-trading pilgrims found themselves clambering over boxes and sacks to reach the check-in counter. In an age where entire time zones can be crossed in a matter of hours, the way to Mecca was still paved with obstacles.

  Hamidbhai handed me one of the better boarding cards. While Hajj flights have no official division of classes, places on the upper deck of a Boeing 747 are simply more comfortable. I was glad at the prospect of a restful first night on a journey where sleeplessness was a given. One of the employees from the travel agency who had sincerely shared in my delight when my visa came through, made an impassioned plea: Would I pray that he, too, be granted to perform the Hajj the following year? I readily agreed, knowing that there would be plentiful opportunities to fulfil all these pledges. The other passengers in Terminal 2 – business travellers on their way to Singapore, yoga tourists returning to Paris – all gaped in amazement at the sight of men in archaic clothing on mobile phones placing their final calls in the winding queue for passport control.

  Every journey begins before one sets off on it; preparation for the Hajj, for the pilgrimage to Mecca, is a believer’s vocation and the reward for his life’s work. From childhood, when he first learns that the Hajj is a duty required of every Muslim, he yearns for it. And if he does not feel the compulsion from within, his nearest and dearest give him a firm helping hand, urging him as they would any Muslim who can financially afford to perform the Hajj, until he yields to the inevitable. Facing the qibla, the direction of each of his prayers reminds him daily of the presence of Mecca. Once a year he witnesses the excitement and effort as relatives depart, seen off in pomp and circumstance at the airport, and in some places at the railway station or the main market place.

  In the weeks leading up to the official days of the pilgrimage, the imam elaborates on the significance of the Hajj and the duties of the pilgrims in his khutbah, the sermon preceding the Friday prayers. The holy law decrees, he explains, that one’s familial and business affairs be sorted out before departure. The pilgrim must leave sufficient money for his family and have no outstanding debts. If his neighbour is in need, one hadith states, the trip must be postponed. For the Hajj is not only an individual pilgrimage, it is a communal congregation, an entreaty of the Ummah. Most important of all, is that the prospective pilgrim divests himself of burdens and failings in advance: Provide well for yourselves: the best provision is piety. (2:197). While the Hajj will purge him of all sins, it will not make a better person of him. He who embarks on it a liar or hypocrite, will return a liar or hypocrite. The Hajj is not an end in itself, it is not effective on its own – a poorly executed Hajj is of less worth than no Hajj at all. Since the Hajj is not only a pinnacle of one’s life but also a considerable financial undertaking, the believer has to save up for a long time, for decades sometimes, and the year prior to his departure brings a plethora of special prayers and rituals to learn.

  * definition in the glossary at the end of the book

  Arrival

  Only once you are there, do you see the Holy City.

  In the first of many waiting rooms at Jeddah Airport, we were welcomed in the languages of the Ummah: Hos geldiniz, mabuhay, selamat dotang, hu soo dhawanda, bemvindo, bienvenue, karibuni, sanon dezuwa. The last members of a Turkish group were vacating the room, and behind us were Central Asian pilgrims speaking Russian and a language I didn’t recognise. In the first room we filled out the forms for entering the country, which were checked by several officials passing through the rows; then we were led through to the next room and took a seat on the benches, with women on the left and men on the right. An hour later, our entry papers were inspected by a uniformed man up at the counter and computer-legible magnetic strips were stuck to our passports, after which we were guided through to the third hall where our baggage was thoroughly searched by customs officials in the reclaim area. Our group’s luggage was heaved and stacked onto trolleys by dark-skinned workers and pushed out. The final step in the procedure took place at a square kiosk, open on all four sides, outside the terminal: the financial formalities. We handed over cheques to the value of around £250, in exchange for a double-sided insert for our passports that contained various vouchers to be redeemed against bus travel to Mecca, onwards to Medina, and from Medina back to Jeddah.

  We were outside at last. The smell of leather, diesel and cleaning detergent intermingled with the slight night breeze that rustled around us. Between ourselves and the sky, a solid light beige roof emulated vast tents, a multitude of domes elegantly suspended over an area of several square kilometres, all part of allegedly the largest airport complex in the world. The pilgrims were huddled in groups, some already clad in ihram, others still in their local clothes. Often they entered following a flag-bearer, like athletes entering an Olympic stadium – some groups in formation, others in confused disarray. Their place of origin was detailed on their lapels or their backs, information about their region, town and travel group listed under another small flag, to prevent them from going astray, presumably. The tented hall was divided into areas according to nationality, though not in any obvious order, and not strictly adhered to either – we Indians found a berth in the Pakistan sector.

  We waited there for seven hours, not knowing what we were waiting for, and slurped tea with condensed milk out of plastic cups – the first of many to come. There were gaps in the roof, between the tents, through which beams of sunlight slanted in – harsh light that criss-crossed the floor in a series of canals. Once, Hamidbhai told us, crouching down during a break from his negotiations with officials, the airport procedure had dragged on for 20 hours. In days gone by
, pilgrims were sometimes kept at Jeddah’s harbour for days on end. The delay, once attributed to the greed of local profiteers and the Ottoman administrators, was now due to a complex bureaucratic system developed by the Saudi Arabian government to keep control of the pilgrims. At the airport all passports are collected and not returned to the pilgrims until they return to the airport weeks later – but they accompany us throughout the journey – incognito, so to speak. They are kept in a bag next to the drivers or guides, and have sometimes been known to disappear into the gaping shelves of bureaucratic offices in Mecca or Medina where relocating one could take ages – as I was to discover.

  The road from Jeddah to Mecca must be the most-travelled road on the Arabian Peninsula. At its start, the highway was strewn with rubbish that had collected in the ditches on either side but as we moved further away from the city, the desert became cleaner. After a few kilometres the road snaked over a line of low hills to the Bahra Plain. Light-coloured sand clung to the slopes of glowering, forbidding hills as we drove towards the main range of the Western Arabian mountains. An archway over the highway, depicting the Qur’an open upon a lectern, indicated the border to Miquat, the area around Mecca where pilgrims must be dressed in the ihram. Later, after certain rituals have been performed, the ihram may then be removed. On the bus, all garbed in white, we were shivering in the blast of the air-conditioning. The road had been so sturdily built a century ago that strong mules could complete the journey in six to seven hours. Subject to waits at checkpoints, and what with the traffic jams on the last few kilometres, we were hardly much quicker.

  We were unaware that we had finally reached the valley in which the holy city is cradled 200 metres above sea level. Suddenly we stopped at a crossroads surrounded by hills – wherever you stand in Mecca, hills obstruct the view. Buildings rose up in every direction, ascending the hills until their strength petered out, and grey city yielded to grey rock.